Unexpected Song
by LadyBastet92
Summary: Belle wasn't expecting someone like him. Quasimodo never thought to find someone like her. But when these two outcasts meet, they will realize how beautiful an unexpected song can be. HoND/BatB crossover. Belle/Quasimodo. Three-shot.
1. Part 1

**A/N:…I don't even have an excuse for this. Except I might actually ship it. Literally. I know it's a crossover couple, but…you know what? Just read it and make your own opinions about it. It's strange, but maybe some crossover fans will like it.**

**I don't really know what century Belle was supposed to be from originally- I assumed about the 17****th**** century – but for this story I bumped her back to the 15****th****. So pretend the whole **_**Beauty and the Beast**_** story takes place around this era as well. **

**I did my research on Middle Age books, but I'm no expert, so if there are a few historical inaccuracies in there, I apologize. The fact that Belle would be reading an epic poem is already kind've a historical inaccuracy, but please just go along with it.**

**This beginning part takes place about three years before their respective movies take place. Belle is about 16, Quasimodo about 17 (Quasimodo is 20 in the film, and I always assumed Belle was a young adult when the film took place). **

**Please enjoy, and let me know what you think of this madness! **

It was another ordinary day. At least it seemed that way to Belle. Another day of twists and turns through this never ending city, another day of gloomy skies and foreboding weather, another day of silent whispers and doubtful glances. This is what Belle expected every time she walked out of her house, whether it be in her small village or this big city. But she had hoped things would be different here. The ordinary was Belle's enemy – she wanted no routine, no usual, no norm. But sadly, some things simply never change.

It was supposed to be an adventure, moving to Paris. That's what her father had told her - that's what she told herself. Her father had recently finished his invention, and decided that moving to Paris would bring him the most opportunities to get his work recognized. Belle couldn't have been more excited when she was told. She immediately dug up as many books as could find on Paris, and re-read the stories she already knew so well about the city. With simply ink and paper authors everywhere had painted a picture of a city illuminated by stories of adventure, history, and romance. Until now Belle had been constrained to her dull little room, and could only imagine what Paris was like through the minds and words of others. Paris was as exotic and strange to Belle as Arabia – it seemed near impossible for Belle to ever step foot in such a wondrous place. This enchanted city was exactly what Belle was hoping for all these years: a chance for excitement, a chance for change from the routine of her dull little town and its boring inhabitants. Paris was her chance to get away.

Her first few days were spent exploring, in awe of the beautiful and magnificent buildings and statues that populated the enormous city. But what she loved more then the massive and striking palaces and that lured every commoner's eye were the little beauties that hid in the shadows. Belle loved finding hidden statues and faces engraved on the sides of the buildings; she was always looking up while everyone else was determined to keep their heads down. The city's secrets tugged her towards another street or hidden ally, temping her to find splendor in the shadows of the rich and grand. The city was her real life storybook, with its secrets yet to be told.

But one can only live with their head in the clouds for so long. Belle could spend hours with her nose stuck in a book, but no one can live within their fantasies forever. Belle could forget for a while, numb herself a bit from the pain, but she wasn't completely immune to the feeling of dozens of eyes piercing her from behind. People seemed to think Belle was oblivious to what others thought of her because she wouldn't turn her head every time she heard her name whispered by some old hag or gossiping townswoman. Belle had just gotten used to it. But familiarity didn't take away the hurt.

Belle had hoped being in a wide expansive city like Paris would make things different. She knew everyone in her small village; there wasn't anywhere she could escape to there. Belle hoped she would be less of a spectacle among its hundreds of inhabitants. Belle wanted to be able to get lost. What Belle didn't know was that being "different" in a _city _made you even more of a gossip's topic. Thankfully Belle was not born into the upper class, which would've guaranteed her demise – people simply care less about the lower classes. But people still scoffed as she passed their way with a book in hand, still rolled their eyes, still giggled spitefully to themselves about "that strange girl". Hopelessly, Belle just dug herself deeper into her fantasies – it was only there she could be accepted and safe from disdain.

Yes, Belle wanted adventure and excitement, was always searching for it, was always hoping for it. But a part of her, a part bigger then Belle could've imagined, still yearned for the one thing she had wanted since she was a child: a real friend. This dream seemed to her as wild as having one of her fairy tales come true. Like her near-impossible dreams of romance and adventure, Belle never gave up on that hope, but she made no effort for companionship with anyone in the city. Anyone she could approach would probably turn in the other direction anyway, Belle thought. Until she could find someone to stay, Belle continued to rely on her friends of ink and paper- the only ones she could ever trust.

It was a Sunday afternoon. The sky was a dark tint of blue, yet there wasn't a cloud in sight; a bit unusual for Paris. Belle was on another one of her walks through the city, but she had forgotten where she was, or where she was heading. She was in one of those lofty-minded states; she could see all that passed by her, she could feel the brisk wind on her face, and hear the clamors and shouts of Paris in the afternoon – yet at the same time, she wasn't truly registering any of these things. Belle had always had this strange talent: she could see the Seine flowing by her side, quickly avoid citizens rushing back and forth past her; yet all she could _really_ see were the words flowing in front of her eyes. As par usual, Belle's focus was on that of a novel – quite an exciting one, and it had completely enraptured her senses in concentration. Even though she may have a disconnect from society because of it, Belle loved the feeling of getting lost in words.

Right when the book reached its climax and Belle's heart was palpitating in suspense, the tolling of a bell woke her from her fantastic daze. Belle was stunned motionless, before ripping her eyes from her book for the first time that afternoon. Her heart skipped a beat when she looked at the massive structure that stood nearby; it was the cathedral Notre Dame of Paris. Without realizing, Belle had crossed over into the Ile de la Cite, and was now in Notre Dame square.

For the first time since she'd been in this city, Belle was stunned. After the first solemn bell had sounded, a melody of chimes joined in soon after. The bells from the cathedral's tower continued to ring, one after the other, in a flawless flow of harmony. These were the songs the citizens of Paris heard every day, but to Belle those grand and powerful bells were magical. These bells were nothing like the one in the short tower of the church in her village. That bell had always sounded to hallow and lifeless to Belle; Notre Dame's bells seemed to literally sing out with exhilaration and joy…They were beautiful.

"They're only bells," murmured a man beside her.

Belle felt herself blush, realizing she must've said her last thought out loud. Of course, being amazed by bells seemed foolish. But then again, most anything Belle did or thought was considered foolish by everyone else in the world.

But after a moment, Belle didn't mind how foolish she seemed. She was still captivated by those glorious sounds, even though the bells had stopped ringing a few seconds ago. "Who rings those bells?" she asked the man beside her. The man had a ruddy complexion and wore the cloths of a simple peasant, but seemed a bit worn down for a man at such a seemingly young age.

The man shrugged. "Some say it's an angel, some say it's a demon. Others have sworn they have seen some sort of terrifying monster up in the towers."

"You mean no one has ever met the bell-ringer?" asked Belle, tilting her head up towards the twin towers of Notre Dame.

"Nope. Keeps to himself. Rumors love to fly about people who keep to themselves," the man replied listlessly, obviously not having a mind for fascination such as Belle's. "But if I were you, mademoiselle, I'd stick to my own business, and let him stick to his. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mass to attend."

Belle watched as the man walked into the crowd of people filing into the cathedral for afternoon mass. She has not expected such a bizarre answer for such a simple question - and it had sparked her interest. Why had nobody seen the bell ringer before? Surly a man who created such beauty could not be so terrible, or so mysterious. Could she possibly…go and find out herself? She probably shouldn't – that man had warned her to mind her own business…but curiosity had always gotten the better of Belle in the past, and here it was tempting her again. Belle felt an invisible force pulling her towards the church, that familiar yet uncontrollable drive to solve the mystery and find the answer. After a few more seconds, Belle had decided. It seemed curiosity would win this battle as well. Besides, Belle tried to reason, this was the first interesting thing to pop up since she'd been in Paris. Who knew, maybe it was the adventure she was longing for.

Belle was among the last to enter the cathedral, and she heard the massive doors close behind her once she was inside. It was much colder in the church, and much darker – but much more beautiful. Belle had never seen a cathedral in her life, and her small church back in the countryside simply didn't compare. Notre Dame was simple yet exquisite, with beautiful statues aligning the walls and colors from the stain glass windows dancing in the dark corners.

Belle stood a moment, taking in the silent wonders of the cathedral in for the first time, then watched as men and woman of all sorts and classes lined into their respectful aisles and, for the more wealthy, boxes. Belle felt bit guilty – she felt like she should attend the mass too, though she had never attended an afternoon mass in her life. But Belle knew if she was going to sneak up into the tower, she had to get away before mass began. She crossed herself quickly, hoping God would forgive her for her uncontainable curiosity, then slipped away to the side of the church. There, she found a small wooden door, and opened it to find a spiral stone staircase. She hoped that it lead to the tower – though she had no idea what she'd actually do once she got there, now that she thought about it. Nevertheless, Belle started to make her way up the stairway as quickly and quietly as possible.

Once she has made her way up what felt like endless miles of stairs, Belle found herself in front of another wooden door. Belle began to doubt her decision. What if she was intruding on the man? What if he got angry? For a second, Belle thought of going back down and slipping into the masses as if nothing ever happened. But that ever-hungry parasite that feasted on the unknown urged her forward, and despite all logic, Belle opened the door.

All she could see at first were hundreds of wooden platforms and banisters. The sunlight peaked it way though their disjointed angles and contours, its rays now a warm shade of yellow. Belle made her way up a set of wooden stairs, onto a level that seemed like a sort of living quarters. Pans, pots and china sat on crudely-made shelves and occasionally hung from the walls; assorted biblical statues sat around the room, cleverly placed to hold up parts of the shelves; banners of different colored cloth draped the wooden banisters, and not far above her head Belle could spot the massive golden-colored bells

Belle stood captivated. Who could live in a place such as this? It was very unusual, but there was something charming about the place; not exactly magical, but in the glowing light the whole place seemed to belong to another place and time.

A table framed by the light seeping from the nearby balcony caught Belle's eye. When she came closer, she saw on it an assortment of small houses and people – a miniature of the city. A few of the houses were unfinished, and off to the side of the table a line of wooden dolls stood unpainted. Belle picked up a finished one, the figure barely the size of her palm. It was exquisitely made: no detail had been sparred in the creating of it, from the shade of its cheeks to the folds in its dress. Whoever made it had an extraordinary eye, hand and talent for craftsmanship. Belle wondered if the bell-ringer was a sort of carpenter as well.

While admiring the figure in her hand, Belle heard a loud crash from behind her. She gasped and spun around. A metal pan had fallen from the banister. Belle squinted her eyes, and she noticed that a figure hid in the dark behind it. She could barely make out its features, but she could see the faint glistening of its eyes, and some sort of lump that shaped what must've been its back. The figure must have knocked over the pan while walking in, possibly out of shock, before retreating to the shadows.

Noticing that the wooden figure was still in her hand, she quickly placed it back on the table, reddening. She realized how rude it was of her, searching and examining the home of a complete stranger! She had even dared to touch some of his models. Belle hoped its owner wouldn't be too upset.

"I'm so sorry for intruding," fumbled Belle bashfully, "I didn't mean to – I mean, I was just interested. They're very beautifully made." She gestured towards the small city and its inhabitants.

"Um…I-it's okay…I-I-I mean…thank you," the shadow replied timidly. Judging by how softly he spoke (though it was apparent it was a he; probably, she realized, the bell-ringer), he must've felt more awkward and flabbergasted then Belle did. Belle relaxed a bit, reassured yet puzzled by such a light voice coming from the man. For a man strong enough to ring those massive bells several times a day, she didn't expect him to sounds so gentle.

Belle waited for him to say something more, a bit flabbergasted herself, but the two just stood there in silence. Belle supposed she should excuse herself, but she felt like she would be leaving to soon. She didn't even know what the man hiding in the shadows looked like – or why he was hiding in the first place. She didn't come all this way to just go back home with more questions then she had before. Gradually, Belle took a step forward, and was surprised to watch the man retreat further into the shadows.

"Forgive me if I'm being a bit strait forward but," started Belle slowly, "I would very much like to meet you. In the proper sense. The bells sounded so beautiful this afternoon I couldn't help but be a bit curious to find out who rang them."

The man simply stood in silence. Thinking he might have not exactly understood her, Belle asked, "Do you mind coming out of the shadows so I can see you?"

"I-I-I don't think that's a good idea," he whispered instantly, hiding himself behind the wooden barrier further.

Belle frowned. She didn't expect this kind of reaction. "Why not? I don't bite, I promise."

"N-no, it's not, that…it's just-"

"It's okay, really," Belle smiled gently to the man she couldn't even see. How well she knew the pain of being unable to make conversation with potentially cruel strangers. It was strange, being the person to reach out first. But Belle felt a sort of connection with this shadow, and told him honestly, "I would like to meet you."

He hesitated in silence. Belle began to worry that she had pushed him a bit too far. Maybe all he wanted was for Belle to leave and be left alone. But then she saw him take a small step towards her. He was merely a few steps away from the sunlight to begin with, but he moved slowly and cautiously. Belle waited patiently, and smiled encouragingly. She could see the tip of a foot, and then bit by bit the man made himself known – until his face was in plain sight under the sun's glaring light.

Belle gasped in unrestrained horror. But just one second later, Belle could feel her stomach drop and twist in pain. Not with dread -with guilt. She regretted that gasp as soon as she saw the look in that man's eyes. It was the look of a defenseless creature after it's shot, its eyes clouded with surprise and torture. It was the look of pain, brutally ripped of all its disguises and left naked in the wind. Not letting another second pass with his suffering in clear view, the man ran.

"No, please wait!" Belle cried in dismay, and ran after him. She stumbled through the wooden banisters and stairs, and Belle could only see his hunched back as he continued to flee. The man had somehow already climbed a level above her. Belle desperately reached out her hand, realizing she could go no further on this level, and cried out in hope that the man could still hear. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, please forgive me, I…"

Belle's voice faded when she saw the man peeking down at her from above, his expression a mixture of confusion and shock. Belle's face burned miserably under his gaze. She knew that look too well – the look she earned for being strange and unusual. She had ruined any chance of redeeming herself in the eyes of the man she unintentionally scorned, and now he must've realized how foolish a girl had hurt him.

She waited for the man to scold or rebuke Belle with harsh unforgiving words, but instead the man whispered, "You're… sorry?"

Belle looked down at her feet. "I don't expect you to forgive me. What I did was hurtful, but I swear, I didn't know-"

"No, y-you misunderstand," quickly but quietly interrupted the man, who looked a bit shell-shocked. "I-I-I…no one…has ever said 'sorry' to me for being afraid of…of the way I look. Before." The man casted his eyes downward in shame. "It's my fault."

Belle raised her eyebrows quizzically, her humiliation fading under her concern and curiosity. "Why would it be your fault? It's not your fault you look the way you look."

The man looked in her eyes for a second, before turning his head back down and taking a step backward towards the darkness. "It's always been that way. I don't belong around people who…people like you. I was made to be alone, and it's my own fault if I…plague you with my ugliness."

In any other circumstance Belle would've thought he was joking, but his words were spoken solemnly and in all seriousness. She was shocked that the man actually believed such obscure and condescending ideas about himself.

Belle raised her chin, the fire that every so often sparks at the sight of injustice or abuse consuming her. "God did not 'make' anyone to live alone, and it is not _your _sin if you 'plague' us with your looks. Rather it is the fault of _others _for judging another human who is no worse than they are by something as uncontrollable as how they look. We are the guilty ones; _I_ am, not you. What I did was rude and cruel in the face of your situation. Do not apologize for it," Belle said firmly, unwaveringly.

Anyone who passed Belle on the street earlier that morning would have raised their eyebrows in shock at Belle's fierce words. People tended to see her as a quiet mouse of a girl, but Belle had a mighty voice within her when it was set free from the chains of insecurity and doubt. These moments were rare, but very possible.

The man was struck quiet by her words. He didn't know how to respond to them. He had probably never stood up for himself before in his life. A few moments passed in silence between the two. Then he took a step toward into the light, and gave Belle a hint of a smile. "Thank you," he said softly.

Belle smiled in return, and held out her hand. "Can you come down please? I promise I won't react…act as rudely as I did before."

The man climbed down the nearby banister with a grace and agility Belle hadn't seen in the likes of any man before. As he slowly made his way towards Belle on ground, she noticed that he had an unfortunate limp. He seemed to be more comfortable climbing then walking.

Seeing the man in full light a second time, he didn't seem as nearly as frightening. True, his features were twisted and poorly-made, but his soft voice and bright eyes hardly made the man horrific. He approached Belle so shyly and nervously, she couldn't help but think of him more of a boy then a man.

He didn't take her hand, but instead stood a good foot away from her, his brows furrowed with silent worry. For a second, Belle wondered if she should leave, but she didn't think she could if she wanted to. Something rooted Belle to that spot, something unwilling to let go until her purpose for coming here was revealed. She didn't want to leave the man – for what reason she didn't really know. It went beyond her original curiosity and crossed over into the realm of compassion.

"What's your name?" Belle asked him, soft kindness melting into her voice.

"Quasimodo," he replied shyly.

"Quasimodo…" Belle tasted the letters on her lips. She grinned. She liked the way it sounded. "It's not a French name, is it?"

"No, it's Latin."

"You know Latin?" Belle asked, surprised. Very few unwealthy Parisians were educated to write and read in French, and even a smaller portion knew any Latin.

"Oh yes. L-L-Latin and French and Greek," Quasimodo said meekly.

For a moment a pang of envy sounded in Belle's heart. A man who could read three languages! She could only dream what freedom that could give him. What incredible books she could read if she wasn't constrained to just her lousy French!

"What are you reading?" he asked curiously, taking a step forward. He had noticed the book that was in her basket, still wrapped around her arm.

"Oh," Belle said, picking up the book in her hand. "It's…it's a poem. An epic poem. It's called Beowulf. It took me quite a while to find a copy. It's English."

"You know English?" Quasimodo said, his voice perking up in honest curiosity.

"Oh no," said Belle blushing, "I mean, I'm trying to learn. But it's very hard. But it's such a beautiful poem – from what I'm making of it - and I don't think a translation could do it justice." Belle looked at the book and stroked its spine tenderly. "Translating seems a bit like cheating to me anyway. The book shouldn't be molded and forced the change; the reader should adapt to appreciate the book. At least that's what I think," Belle quickly finished, noticing that she had prattled on about a topic that so many found dull and inappropriate.

Quasimodo, instead of looking at her judgmentally and scornfully as she was so used to, was smiling at her. The first real smile Belle had seen from his lips. She was amazed to find his expression wore respect and admiration, almost pride for her. It seemed out of place coming from the man who hid in the darkness just minutes before, but it filled her heart with silent joy nevertheless.

"I suppose you have read quite a few great books yourself, being such a learned man," said Belle, looking back down at her novel, trying her best to conceal the envy in her voice.

"Oh…no," Belle could see Quasimodo's smile wan from the corner of her eye. "The only copy of a book I keep is the Bible. My Master brings me a few books –lesson books mostly - but he always takes them with him."

"Your _master_?" Belle said incredulously. She was not expecting this. She had heard of young woman becoming house servants, or men becoming apprentices - but how could the bell ringer –and such a talented one at that - have a master?

"Y-yes. He took me in and raised me. He taught me all I know."

"Yet he keeps books from you?" said Belle in disbelief.

"I cannot question him," Quasimodo said solemnly, yet sadly. He was resigned to his fate, but Belle could tell he did not welcome it.

_This is wrong,_ Belle thought. A man of such great learning shouldn't waste his talents on lesson books! He could be reading Greek tragedies, Latin dramas – all those wonderful tales that she so often craved to read and experience herself. It was for more than lack of experience the man suffered, though. Quasimodo wanted to get away. She could see in his dismal eyes a horizon he wanted to reach and escape to. Belle knew, because she saw that same horizon. Quasimodo was a man who hid much suffering from the world behind his twisted frame; that pain was in clear sight from the moment Belle looked into his eyes.

Belle suddenly felt guilty. How could she feel envious of this man? Sure, he had a great mind and much knowledge to be proud of, but he himself didn't seem to recognize just how much that meant. Belle was always complaining to herself how "odd" she was, how out of place she felt; yet she couldn't even touch on the torment Quasimodo must feel by being out casted. Yet, at the same time, she almost could. They shared some sort of familiar pain, though his was much more scarring then hers could ever be.

But what did she know? She was making assumptions of this man. She didn't know anything about this man. She just knew a few seconds and a smile; that's all. She could walk out of the cathedral and never return, and their lives would go on without any knowledge of the other. But Belle wanted to know. She wanted to help this man in his pain, surely; but more so she wanted to _know_ him. What they shared, what they never could; what they could teach each other, how they could grow from one another. Belle had never felt this strange longing to know a complete stranger before. An invisible rope had ensnared Belle the moment her eyes linked with his – and she desperately didn't want to let go.

Belle suddenly had an idea. A way for her to help Quasimodo - and a way for them to meet again.

"Let me bring _you_ books," said Belle excitedly, a plan formulating in her head. "I myself don't have a great many with me, but I'm sure I could go to a library and find some Greek plays or something-"

"W-w-wait," stuttered Quasimodo nervously, taken aback. "I'm n-not so sure that's a good idea-"

"Why not? Books can't hurt you. You'd be amazed by some of these stories, Quasimodo, they-"

"It's not the books themselves I'm worried about," said Quasimodo, looking into Belle's eyes, silently pleading with her to understand.

"But why…" but after a few seconds of looking into Quasimodo's tortured emerald eyes, she did understand. His eyes were clouded with fear. Fear for something that she couldn't begin to imagine. But she knew what he was afraid of. Belle shivered - What kind of man could bring such dread into such soft eyes?

"Why would your master have anything against books Quasimodo?" asked Belle softly.

"I don't know," said Quasimodo, "All I know is…he wouldn't want you coming here to see me."

Belle spent a few seconds contemplating this. Suddenly, a mischievous smile crept unto her face –a very unfamiliar concept to her was sneaking into her thoughts. "Who says you're master has to know?"

Quasimodo was seriously taken aback by such a suggestion. Quasimodo silently considered this for a few seconds, rubbing his hands nervously. This new idea obviously confused and distressed him; he had probably never gone against a superior in his entire life. Then again, neither had she, and this "Master" was probably a much more tyrannical force then her kind-hearted father.

A few more seconds passed; the sun was now setting, and the light in the bell tower grew to a more dark golden hue. Belle started to wonder if she should simply go home now, starting to realize how foolish an idea she had proposed to him, until she heard Quasimodo sigh.

"You'll have to come after dark," Quasimodo said to her. "My master usually comes in the mornings and later afternoons. But you have to go _now_."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow?" asked Belle eagerly.

Quasimodo, a bit surprised by her enthusiasm, nodded. "Tomorrow night. B-but please, go now before he arrives. Wait a good hour after the sun sets."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Belle, flashing Quasimodo a wide grin of excitement. She clasped his hands in her own and said "Goodbye Quasimodo," before making her way stumbling to the stone staircase, too excited to ask directions. As she was about to go down it, she heard him, trembling, cry out behind her.

"Goodbye…Belle…"

There was something in the tone of his voice Belle didn't quite understand. But Belle just turned around and gave Quasimodo one last sweet smile from afar, before climbing down into the darkness of the cathedral, her mind racing of the next day – and her possible new friend.


	2. Part 2

**A/N: Well, this just took forever and a day to get done. Literally, I've been working on this since March, and I think the sheer length of it explains why. I am sorry for not getting this out sooner. I suppose I could have cut this into pieces, but I desperately wanted to keep this a three-shot (for reasons I don't even know!) And that means, if you are wondering, yes: there is going to be one more part of the story after this. (But just how long will it take to get **_**that**_** out…)**

**Anyway, I hope this part makes up for the long wait. I can't believe how many reviews this has gotten – I was expecting two at the most! So, thank you all for your kind and insightful reviews. I hope you all let me know how you like this next installment!**

**Par usual, please review and enjoy!**

Belle stood in front of her bookcase, her eyes scanning the various titles and covers assembled in front of her. She only had a meager amount of books with her in Paris, but she had been able to expand her collection by searching through small bookstores and bargaining in markets the few weeks past. Some were worse for wear then others, but all of their words were still on their pages, which is all that really mattered to Belle.

The sun had set, and a single candle was lit to illuminate Belle's small but well-furnished room. Even though her room here in Paris was smaller than the one in their old cottage, she was perfectly happy with her accommodations. Belle had never cared much for luxuries anyway – all she needed was a bed, a candle and a bookcase and she could live comfortably for a very long time. Besides, Belle spent very little time in her house, having always preferred the expansive to the confined. Still, it was always nice to return to her own protective bubble after a day of stares and snickers from strangers. The only ones she need worry about at home were her father and her books, both company she delighted in keeping.

Tonight, however, she had a job to do. A job _she_ enlisted herself to do, of course, and one that was hardly a chore, but a difficult task nonetheless. Choosing a novel for her new friend to read for the first time was proving more difficult then she thought it would be.

_Friend._ Well, they weren't exactly friends yet, Belle supposed. But she liked the thought of it anyway. It actually surprised her quite a bit how happy the prospect of her and Quasimodo becoming friends made her. But perhaps it wasn't that surprising, considering Belle never had a friend in her life. A real one, that is.

Belle reached out and traced the edges of the books with her delicate fingers. She was feeling leather and paper, but in her mind, she was tracing the contours of that unusual man's face – every crooked line, every asymmetrical shape. It was so unlike the rigid and symmetrical formation of her novels. There was no rhyme or reason to his build-up, with curves and angles everywhere they weren't supposed to be. Everything about him was awkward and out of place.

But that was why she liked him. In a world full of squares, Belle found it oddly comforting and refreshing to find a fellow circle. Quasimodo had no choice in the matter of the way he looked, just like Belle couldn't change her mind and personality even if she bothered to try. They were both outcasts. They were both misunderstood. They both didn't belong. But maybe, just maybe, they could find someplace they belonged with each other. Belle knew it was a strange thought. _But perhaps that's what makes it all the more perfect for people as strange as we are_, Belle thought with a smirk.

Belle was having trouble deciding what to bring Quasimodo to read the following evening, as she promised she would. Interestingly enough, for someone as poor as he, Quasimodo was remarkably intelligent. To know three languages was something Belle could only dream of, and yet the bell ringer could speak them all flawlessly. But at the same time, Quasimodo had none of the impressions of a scholar. Some of it had to do with his appearance, true, but it had even more to do with his personality. The boy had nearly no confidence in his own mind, unlike most educated people. Belle supposed it had something to do with being shunned and despised by the populace for so long, but it was probably more due to that so-called "master" of his. Belle shuddered with revulsion at the very thought of him. She hadn't even met the man and she was already furious with him. Whatever kind of man that could put so much hurt and fear into Quasimodo's soft green eyes could be no less that evil in her opinion.

Forcing herself to focus, Belle wondered if Quasimodo would enjoy reading more high-class and renowned works. She only had French novels, but Belle could pick up some Greek play in the market place in the morning, perhaps. But she had no _idea_ what kind of books he liked. She doubted he knew either, considering the only book he had read in his life was the Bible. Would he want some high-strung adventure, or perhaps something more thoughtful?

Her eyes stopped on a thick spine that protruded from the edge of the bookcase. It was a collection of French fairytales – one of Belle's favorites. She had loved reading them as a girl, but Belle still found herself rereading those stories even as a young woman. She picked up the book and flipped through its pages. Illustrations and words she knew almost by heart flew by with every flip, giving the impression that the stories were ready to jump right out of the storybook. Everything about the fairytales was fanciful and naïve; even if there were some dark parts here and there, a happy ending was guaranteed. As much has Belle loved her sophisticated novels, having the reassurance of a happy ending was always a nice place to fall back to.

Belle thought back to her encounter from that afternoon: the damp sunlight danced off the bell tower's stone walls and golden bells, illuminating his stained glass and figurines, and revealing Quasimodo's figure from the shadows. But what she remembered best about it all was Quasimodo's eyes. Despite all of his deformities, it was his eyes that truly made Quasimodo who he was. Even after only a few minutes spent with him, Belle could tell that he was no monster – monsters don't have eyes like Quasimodo's. They were a soft emerald green, one of the most unusual yet stunning colors Belle had ever seen. Their brilliance was usually clouded by the pain and fear that mirrored his hunched-over and closed posture. But once or twice, his fear lifted, like the sun peaking through the clouds; and if only for a few seconds, his eyes glistened the most beautiful color Belle had ever be held. Though the clouds quickly came in again and their brilliance retreated, she knew that the beauty she saw in those glimmering eyes was the _real _Quasimodo. And now that she had found him, she desperately wanted to find him again. She needed a way to chase the shadows from his eyes and draw his shy yet shimmering personality into the light.

_Perhaps_, thought Belle, _what Quasimodo really needs is a happy ending. _

Belle smiled, remembering the man who acted more like a boy when she first met him. She closed the book in her hands, and decided that she would bring the collection of fairytales to him the next evening.

The door to their home then creaked open. Belle put the book on her desk as her father walked in and gave her a tired smile, the result of a long day at business, no doubt. "Hello, darling. Are you just going to bed?"

"Yes Papa. But sleep can always wait," said Belle with a grin, stepping out of her room to hug her father.

"Aw, don't give me that," said her father playfully, "If you're going to sleep, go to sleep. I'm just going to get myself something to drink, and then I'll be off to bed as well."

But Belle wouldn't give in, insisting on spending the few moments she could with her father. She barely saw him during the day, what with him constantly out and about trying to get recognition for his inventions. They sat down at their small table, drinks in hand, and after a few minutes of conversation her father asked the same question he asked her every day: "Did you make any friends in town today?"

Belle never had a different answer to this question before in her life. Tonight, however, she realized she did. She felt her stomach flutter with joy at that one simple thought as she answered him:

"Yes Papa. I think I did."

* * *

"T-t-thank you for the book," said Quasimodo with a toothy grin. Belle noticed that his cheeks were red as he handed back the book to her, but she also noticed a hint of that beautiful gleam in his eyes. The shy creature still stood rather awkwardly and closed up, embarrassed and bashful, but his expression was the happiest Belle had seen from him since they'd met.

Belle had delivered the book to Quasimodo after sunset a few days ago, and since then she had been restless. She was unable to keep her mind as clear and absorbed as usual, often bumping into passerby's even when she _wasn't _reading. She scolded herself for being overeager to meet with Quasimodo again and tried to rationalize that giving him one book barely meant anything. But after what she thought were a sufficient amount of days passed, Belle was just about ready to bolt to the bell tower. It took a lot of effort to keep up her façade of nonchalance and self-control that evening, when on the inside Belle was no less than a raging ball of anticipation.

At Quasimodo's words, Belle finally felt her shoulders go lax, and she breathed in a small sigh of relief. "Did you like it?" But she did have to ask. His shining eyes said it all.

"Very, very much," said Quasimodo, with no quiver in his voice this time. When he reached out to graciously hand the book over to Belle, which she took from him with a smile, she thought she saw his cheeks turn a slightly deeper shade of red.

"Well, then, what should I bring for you next time? I mean, if you want to keep doing this. If you like it," said Belle a bit hurriedly, a part of her worried that he would say no.

"I. Um. A-a-actually" murmured Quasimodo as he looked down as his hands, which he was frantically rubbing together. "I was thinking…maybe… are you still reading that English poem?"

"Oh…well, yes," answered Belle, a bit confused.

"Well…I-I was thinking that…I would like to learn some English too, and I was wondering if we could…maybe…read it…together?" Quasimodo's voice had gotten quieter and quieter, until it was no more than a whisper when he uttered his last words. His expression was worrisome and doubtful, but also held a hint of hope.

Belle, on the other hand, resisted the urge to jump up and down. This was _exactly_ what she wanted. Butterflies threatened to burst from her chest from the bliss. The rational part of her reminded Belle that she shouldn't be overreacting to his proposal like this, but the rest of her simply didn't care. Quasimodo was opening up to her already; reading with him would be the perfect way to get him to feel comfortable in his own skin – and hopefully around her.

"Yes Quasimodo," said Belle with an eager grin, "I think that's a wonderful idea."

So they decided to meet each other every night in the bell tower after sunset. Belle would bring _Beowulf_ with her, usually along with a copy of a book for Quasimodo to read during the day. Sometimes it would be a book or play she borrowed from somebody or the library (mostly material in Greek and Latin that Belle couldn't even begin to guess was about) and other times it would be one of her own novels. Quasimodo usually returned them the next evening completely finished, even the books that usually took her days to read.

At first they tried reading together by candlelight on his makeshift desk, but both found that to be troublesome and irksome with the lack of light and space. Then Quasimodo suggested that they read together on top of the tower. Belle was a bit wary about this idea, but all of her doubts were erased the moment she reached the top and saw the view. It was break-taking - it was like nothing she had ever seen before. Even at night the entire city was visible, twinkling with lights from houses, and the Seine that encircled the cathedral glimmered in the moonlight. It was with this moonlight and the added assistance of some candles that Belle and Quasimodo huddled together and tried to dissect the epic English poem.

Belle was astounded at the rapid rate Quasimodo learned. Belle knew that he was unusually bright, but Quasimodo was more than just educated: he had a mind that naturally observed and absorbed everything around him. Quasimodo had a _love _for learning. Within the first two weeks, he had reached the same level of understanding English that Belle was at after seven months. Soon, _he_ was the one who was helping _her_. And Belle simply couldn't be upset about it. Normally she would be overly-envious (even the best of people have egos), but watching the way his face lit up when they were reading together made her too happy to be upset.

It didn't take as long as she thought it would for Quasimodo to open up around her. He was still a bit awkward when he spoke directly to her, but Belle had learned much by just observing him when they read together. She found so many little things about him that enchanted her that she didn't see before. She came to treasure the light tone of his laugh, the slight dimples of his chin, and the handsome shade of his ginger hair. The way he effortlessly slid and climbed through the entire tower left Belle breathless as well. He looked like he was flying when he swung too and for from his bells (Quasimodo felt comfortable enough to introduce her to them after a few days). He almost looked like he had wings – like some sort of strange yet wonderful angel.

She also very, very much liked the way his large and brutish hands tenderly enfolded hers. Quasimodo was very nervous to touch Belle at all at first, for reasons unbeknownst to her, but he decided it was necessary for him to hold her hand as they climbed to the top of the bell tower together through the unsteady-looking banisters and steps. She hadn't expected to like how her hand felt in his as much as it did. She liked it much more then she probably should have. But she liked it. A lot.

And as time passed, Belle couldn't help but think that he liked it as well. He soon started to become reluctant to let go of her hand once they reached the tower. It eventually got to the point where neither of them really let go of each other's hands - they would just stand by the edge of the tower together for a while, looking out silently over the city. Belle would sometimes glance over at him with an affectionate look in her eye, then quickly look forward when his eyes started to glance her way. With a few of these sneaky side-glances, she could see that that he was doing the same.

Belle couldn't decide what she loved more - the moments they shared spoken or in silence. But in either case, the highlight of her entire day always came after sunset. It started with a little buzz of excitement when they first started to meet, but as weeks passed, Belle found it near impossible to keep herself from going mad with anticipation during the day. The thought of the safety and seclusion of the bell tower and its bellringer was what got her through the day, especially the days of cruel whispers and glares. She no longer cared what those fools thought of her. All she cared about anymore was her father and her Quasimodo.

_Her Quasimodo._ Belle instantly blushed at the thought. She stuck her head further into her book, as if she thought some passerby might be able read her mind with that blush. But a glowing smile was not lost on her lips.

Belle was sitting in the square of Notre Dame that late afternoon. Belle had no more chores or errands to occupy her mind that day, so she instinctively migrated towards her favorite spot in the city. She sat in Notre Dame's square most every day now. Though she couldn't meet up with him until sunset, it made her feel warm inside to think that Quasimodo was nearby. Perhaps even watching her. This idea caused Belle's cheeks to turn even redder, but with embarrassment or delight, she herself couldn't be sure. But Belle had a creeping sense that it was the latter.

_Why am I acting like this?_ Thought Belle, for once in her life only _pretending_ to be engrossed with the words on the pages in front of her. _I've only known him for a few weeks. I'm not the sort of girl to fall this far for any sort of man. I'm not like those idiotic and empty-headed girls in the village who obsess over men every minute of every day. I'm sensible. I'm intelligent. _

…_Am I in love?_

Belle snapped her head up. Her hands trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head.

No. No, she wouldn't allow herself to think like this. _Quasimodo is a dear friend. A wonderful, amazing, incredible dear friend…But only a friend. _

Belle sighed. _Nothing more._

She rested her head on her hand, allowing her eyes and mind to roam. She quickly caught sight of a young woman a few yards away from her. She was dark-skinned with raven hair: a Rrom. Her kind were also (mistakenly) called Egyptians, though more commonly referred to as "gypsies". She was decked in bright purples and golds, spinning and dancing to the beat of her tambourine. A few other Roma surrounded her, playing various instruments, and a small white goat pranced around her feet.

The girl was just about Belle's age, but was living a completely different life. Belle knew that it wasn't right, but she sometimes almost wished to be a part of the Romani life. Nothing tying you down, roaming wherever you please – it all seemed very appealing to the free-spirited girl. So many of the Roma were scorned for who there were, and the life of one could not be easy. But still, Belle could imagine living a happy life as a gypsy. She was mad for thinking so, of course. But then, what else was new?

In one of her spins, the Roma girl locked eyes with her. Her eyes were sparkling emerald green. Just like Quasimodo's. Belle gave her a small but friendly smile, and the gypsy girl smiled back. But her eyes suddenly grew dark, and before Belle knew what was happening, the Roma girl and the other gypsies were gone.

A shadow fell over her. Looking up, Belle could see a tall and intimating figure atop a pitch-black horse. Her stomach lurched a bit at the sight. The man was decked in all black, his face long and tight, and his eyes unmercifully hardened. His eyes were nothing like the Rrom or Quasimodo's – they were dark, calculating and scrutinizing everything they set their sights on. She wanted to bolt at the sight of him, but it was too late now.

"Mademoiselle," said the man in a deep, commanding voice, "It's best for you not to be out alone at this hour. Thieves and tricksters are at every corner at this time of day." He gave a meaningful look towards the spot where the Rrom girl had been dancing just moments before. "A young woman like you could run into trouble."

Belle doubted this man cared for her safety as much as he did for finding those gypsies. She could see the deep distain in his features at the very mention of them. "I'm sorry Monsieur. I was just reading. I'm afraid I lost track of time."

He glanced down at the book in Belle's hand. "Ah, yes. I've seen you around here the past couple of days with a book in your hand. Why is that, Mademoiselle?..."

"Isabelle," she said, giving her birth name that she almost never used for this unpleasant stranger.

"You are new," noted the man without any particular emotion. "I am Judge Frollo. It is my sworn duty to keep peace and order in this city, and for all of its inhabitants."

Belle froze. Then her skin began to burn. _Judge Frollo._ _This_ was Quasimodo's master.

She now understood why Quasimodo was so afraid. There was not an ounce of kindness in those bottomless eyes, not a drop of compassion in his rigid expression. It was as if he was made of stone – something inhuman, unfeeling, unloving. If he acted so hardened towards a total stranger, Belle could only imagine what Quasimodo had to endure. A sick shiver ran down her spine and her eyes burned fire.

Belle suddenly had an unfamiliar urge to act violently. She wanted so badly to hurt this man to had hurt her Quasimodo. _He doesn't deserve you_, her mind screamed at Frollo. _He is a better man then you'll ever be!_

But she could do nothing but give the judge a cold nod in substitution for all the anger boiling up inside of her. She wasn't the type to lash out physically, despite her fury, and she also wasn't stupid enough to attack a man with such power at court. It really was unfortunate.

"Why do you spend so much time at Notre Dame?" Frollo asked again.

"I feel safe in the shadow of the cathedral," she replied curtly. It wasn't a lie, was it?

Belle's voice was now hard and tight, and she stared resolutely into his eyes without a hint of fear. Frollo must have noticed this change of attitude. His callous eyes narrowed, and spoke in a voice even deeper and more threatening then before, if that was possible.

"Mademoiselle," he started, "I recommend that you go home straight away. I don't know where you come from, but here, woman like…_you_ are best staying in and remembering their place." Belle noticed that he looked straight at the book in her arms as he said those last words.

Tightening her arms around her novel, as if Frollo's evil stare might burn holes right through its precious pages, she could only bring herself to nod before hurrying away. She doubted she would've been able to restrain her rage a moment longer if that man remained in her sight.

_He's not a man_, she told herself, _He's a monster._

_

* * *

_

_"Why do you keep coming?"_

_Belle looked up from the novel, surprised at Quasimodo's abrupt question. They had been happily reading their book aloud when this somber question was asked. Since their ritual began and the two became friends, Quasimodo seemed much happier and more comfortable around Belle when she visited. So when he spoke to her that evening in such a dejected manner that seemed to come out of nowhere, Belle was concerned. _

_"Because you're my friend," she said simply. She thought Quasimodo had known that for quite some time. What other reason was there to give? _

_"But don't you have other friends?" asked Quasimodo, not convinced. "Why spend your time with someone like me, when you can be with others who are…better suited then I?"_

_Belle closed her novel. She was silent for a moment. But then she gave Quasimodo a smile._

_"I have no other friends, Quasimodo," she said softly, "And even if I did, I believe that none of them would be better 'suited' then you."_

_Quasimodo's mouth dropped open. "B-b-but how c-can you not have any other friends?" he asked._

_"Because I'm odd," Belle said bluntly. "I suppose a few people tried to talk to me at first because I'm… 'prettier than most', as they say…but as soon as they find out how strange I am, they never talk to me again."_

_She looked into Quasimodo's bright green eyes, this time with sorrow veiled in her face. "In their eyes, my oddness makes me ugly."_

_Belle could see Quasimodo tense and freeze up. She started to worry – did she offend him by deeming herself ugly, when he obviously suffered far worse from physical deformities alone? Did he think that she had no right to complain about her own situation? Ashamed, Belle casted her eyes downwards and stared at the closed book in her hands. _

_But then, she felt Quasimodo tenderly take her hand and enfolded it in his own. His massive and calloused hands, the hands that many believed to be the hands of a monster, exuded such warmth, such comfort, and so much love. Belle couldn't imagine how such wondrous hands, belonging to the most kind and loving person she knew, could ever be deemed monstrous. Belle could only feel blessed to be touched by such hands – the hands of an angel._

_"What others think is 'odd'," he whispered, without a single stutter in her soft voice, "Is what makes you beautiful, Belle. You're intelligent. You're imaginative. You're strong. While the rest of the world only sees how beautiful you are on the outside, I know all the things that make you beautiful on the inside."_

_Belle could feel her heart squeeze. Her whole body seemed to shiver with emotion at such touching and sincere words – words she never expected to hear from any man. She blinked back tears, her heart overflowing like a dam. She never felt like this before in her life. And she never wanted to let this feeling go._

_She took her other hand and gently cupped Quasimodo's face. The moonbeams lit up his deformed face in the night, but it also made his emerald eyes glimmer like precious jewels. Maybe people considered him to be ugly, but in that magical moment, Belle didn't want to look upon another face in the whole wide world. "I've never known anyone more beautiful then you," she whispered._

_Plain shock was in his every feature. He glanced back and forth, as if expecting some dashing soldier or prince to be standing behind him, even though Belle's eyes looked into no others but his. "B-b-but –"_

_"Other people think you're ugly, I know. You think you're hideous," said Belle, her voice threatening to crack as a single tear slid down her face. "But I know you're beautiful. More beautiful than the most handsome man in the entire world."_

_She smiled and lovingly stroked his round cheek. Quasimodo was now smiling as well, a single heartfelt tear rolling down his cheek and gently colliding with Belle's tiny hand. And they both knew that, for the first time in their lives, they were not crying because of pain or fear. They were crying because of each other…they were crying because of love._

_"Your oddness is what makes you beautiful, too," she whispered into his ear as she wrapped him into an embrace. "Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."_

* * *

Belle's eyes fluttered open. She lay atop her bed, her mind racing and her heart pounding after waking up from her dream. But not out of fear – out of pure, adrenalized joy. What made it even better was the fact that it wasn't dream that she had played out in her mind – it was a memory.

_Had that happened just last night?_ Belle wondered, sitting up in her bed, still wearing her daily attire. A book's pages were sprawled across her chest and the candle on her night desk still burned. It couldn't have been too long after sunset. She came home that evening, still fuming over her encounter with Quasimodo's 'master', and decided to lie in bed and read a while to sooth her mind. She didn't remember falling asleep. But the memory was as vivid as if it had just been relived.

Her stomach still fluttered with butterflies from the lovely experience atop the bell tower, even as just a memory. Her cheeks blushed red as she remembered her hand within his hand, her arms around his neck. She didn't care if it was improper to act such a way with a man – she had no regrets about that evening. It was absolutely perfect.

_Almost perfect_ thought Belle, slightly brushing her figures against her lips, imagining how it would have felt to have_ his_ lips touching them…

_I _do_ love him._ Belle couldn't believe she hadn't accepted it before – she had been pushing the idea out of her head for weeks now, and she knew it. She had been afraid, perhaps, that the only reason Quasimodo would love her was because of her exterior appearance, and she knew very well that falling in love with her face wasn't like loving _her_ at all. Her experience with the men in her village had made her wary – she hadn't been in a relationship with any of them, but many men had given her declarations of love just to scurry away after a week together. They had been drawn to the beauty of her face, but repelled by what was beneath the skin.

But Quasimodo had made it expressively clear that night that he liked her (loved her?) for herself, and not her beauty. And that wasn't the first time he had hinted as much. Since they had met, he had always treated the young woman with respect and admiration – and Belle was a fool not to see it.

_But love?_ She thought. _Could _he_ possibly love me back?_

She jumped off her bed and rushed into the kitchen, where she saw her father sitting with his head in his hands. He must've come home while Belle was sleeping. He looked upset and exhausted. Belle was going to tell him that she was going out, but seeing her father in such a sickly state wiped the idea from her mind.

"Papa?" she asked worriedly, "Are you alright?"

Maurice heaved a depressed sigh. "I'm fine, Belle. I'm not sick. Just disappointed, that's all." He looked up at Belle, fatigue and discontent from the look in his eyes to the lines in his wrinkles. "You should probably go say good-bye to your friend."

Belle's stomach squeezed, but this time there were no butterflies. "What do you mean?" she asked, speaking with trepidation.

"I'm sorry, Belle. No one's investing in my invention," he said, speaking like a king who had lost his entire kingdom. "We're going back home in the morning."

Her eyes grew wide and her heart beat fast. In her mind, one single word bounced back and forth in dire apprehension: _Quasimodo_.

Belle took off in a sprint towards the cathedral. If her prediction earlier was correct, then she still had time to meet Quasimodo. And then what? She didn't know. All she knew was that she _had_ to see him again – see him one last time.

It usually took her a good hour to reach the cathedral from her house, but at her pace it took her nearly half the time. Sweat was pouring down her forehead when she finally made it to the square. She could see dozens of people piling into the church doors – it must have been time for the evening mass. Belle usually made her way in before then to watch Quasimodo ring his bells in the splendor of his bell tower.

_But where are the bells tonight?_ He should've been ringing the bells for the evening mass by now. The times the bells rang out during the day had become instinctive to Belle over these past few weeks, since she usually stayed relatively close to the church. And she knew very well that nothing could keep Quasimodo from ringing his precious bells, and he never, ever forgot. It was then Belle knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Belle ran into the cathedral doors, recklessly pushing people aside to get through. Horrible ideas of what might have happened to her friend were racing through her head. Had he been hurt? Or worse yet – had someone hurt _him_? Belle gulped with worry, one evil man in particular man coming to mind.

After making her way through a steam of complaints and grunts by the churchgoers, Belle came to the stone staircase that led up to the bell tower. She raced up the first few steps, then froze. She stayed stone still and dead silent, listening carefully after she thought she heard a sound, a sound that she dreaded to hear.

Someone was coming down the stairs. And it definitely wasn't Quasimodo.

Running down the stairs as quickly as she ran up them, she threw herself behind a stone wall that projected from the sanctuary, panting like a wild animal. In the back of her mind she was grateful that mass hadn't started yet – she would've looked like quite a spectacle if it weren't for the added buzz of the churchgoers and the noise they made as they walked to their pews. But the majority of her mind was petrified, and she prayed to God that whoever was coming down the stairs wouldn't find her. She instantly regretted not attending mass as much as she should've – if there was any time she needed God's favor, it was now.

Finally, she could hear someone walk away from the stone door that led up the stairs. Belle risked a look from behind her wall. An all-too familiar tassel followed a tall creature (for she couldn't regard him as a man) dressed completely in black.

It was Frollo.

Belle held her breath, dying with anticipation, until she saw Frollo walk out the giant church doors that she had just run into a few minutes prior. Her body shook with relief once the threat had finally gone. After glancing back and forth, she silently made her way back into the stone staircase. Once inside, she took off faster than a stag. Frollo had never been to the tower at this time before. Since the bells for evening mass hadn't been rung as well, she had to assume that Frollo had done something to Quasimodo...

He was standing right at the top of the stairs, and Belle nearly ran him over because of it. A cry caught in her throat when she saw him. He _was _hurt. A long trickle of blood rolled down his face, over his shut eye and onto the wooden floor.

"Quasimodo!" said Belle in a strangled combination of a whisper and a scream.

"H-h-he f-found o-out," stammered Quasimodo. He was shaking as hard as a leaf, and his eyes were as terrified and clouded as the first time she saw them. He looked like she was about to topple over with nausea and terror.

Belle, letting common sense overpower her irrational emotions, lead Quasimodo over to his makeshift bed. She tore a strip from her apron and wrapped it around his head. The gash wasn't as terrible as she first thought, but she still got a lot of blood on her hands while trying to stop the bleeding.

"H-he f-found the b-b-book," he stuttered miserably. "H-he b-burned it. I'm s-sorry."

"I doesn't matter," replied Belle, caring more about what Frollo had done to Quasimodo then to her book. She usually held her books in highest esteem, taking importance only after her father. But Quasimodo had now overtaken that spot, some burnt pages seeming insignificant in comparison to his wound, though the thought of her book in ashes still stung. Though it didn't surprise her much that Frollo would burn books, since only the most wicked of men did so, at least in Belle's mind.

Once Quasimodo's wound had stopped bleeding, both he and Belle calmed down a bit, but not much. They both knew what Frollo's discovery of their meetings meant. It was only a matter of time, they both knew. But that didn't make it any easier. On the contrary, the truth pierced them both like flaming arrows.

"We c-can't meet anymore," whispered Quasimodo, his voice filled with regret for those words. He looked like a man broken and stripped down, having lost everything in one fatal swoop. Belle imagined that if she could see herself she would look exactly the same.

"I know," said Belle. "My father and I are moving back. That's why I came tonight. To say goodbye."

She could already feel the tears start to run down her face. She wanted to sob and take Quasimodo in her arms, find that warm and wonderful comfort from them again. And more than anything in the whole world, she wanted to tell him that she loved him.

But she couldn't. It would only hurt them both. She was leaving Paris tomorrow, probably never to return to the city again. In all likelihood, she would never see him again either. Why should she strengthen their bond just before it was to be broken? It would only cause her heart to bleed more afterwards and take more time for the wound to heal – though at that moment, Belle sincerely doubted it ever would.

She didn't know what to say. She couldn't say she loved him. She couldn't say goodbye – she couldn't bring herself to. So she said the only think she could say from the bottom of her heart without hurt or pain.

"I hope you find happiness," she said with a tearful smile, lovingly brushing her hand against his soft ginger hair. They had only been together a few short weeks, but now Belle couldn't imagine a life without him. But she prayed that Quasimodo would someday be free. Free to find his happiness, and free to find himself. And when day finally came, she knew they could both live in peace.

And that should've been enough. She should have left him then and there, before she fell any deeper. But before she knew what she was doing, she pulled his chin closer to hers. Her mind was screaming for her to stop, but her heart, which was breaking and overflowing all at the same time, was now in complete control. If she was never going to see him again, then she had to make sure he knew.

She kissed him. She no longer had to wonder how his lips would feel again hers. She knew now exactly how it felt to kiss the man she loved: it felt beautiful. Wonderful, bittersweet, heart-wrenching, and beautiful.

There was nothing but a silent moment left for them to share. Then, Belle ran down the tower's stairs for the last time, back into reality, and back into the future they would both have to face – a future without each other.


End file.
